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The ring is perfect, but I say, “I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”
“We’ll take it,” Alex says.
Mr. Krupnov jumps on the sale. “I-I’ll just take the young lady’s finger sizes, and y-you’ll have the ring by n-next week.”
“Alex,” I protest.
He gently wiggles the ring from my finger and hands it to Mr. Krupnov before kissing my hand. “I won’t hear any arguments on the matter.”
“Why?” I ask as Mr. Krupnov takes a notebook and pencil from his other pocket.
Alex presses a kiss to the corner of my lips. “Because I can.”
Just like that, the discussion is over. Mr. Krupnov takes the measurements of my fingers and scribbles them in his notebook. He asks on which finger I’d like to wear the ring, writes that down too, and then he takes his leave.
When we’re alone, I feel compelled to say, “Thank you,” even though Alex didn’t give me the option of refusing his gift.
He frowns. “You don’t look happy. If you don’t like that ring, I’ll get you another one.”
“The ring is gorgeous.”
“Then what’s the matter?” he asks, taking my hand.
“I’m not used to receiving gifts that must cost more than what I make in a year.”
Resting a hand on my hip, he tips up my chin with a finger. “Get used to it.”
I’m about to press him more for the motivation behind the sudden gift, but he stills me with another kiss on my lips.
“We’d better go.” Tension flows into the set of his shoulders. “We can’t be late. I want to get to the venue before everyone else.”
Right. Because it’s dangerous to go outside.
My stomach muscles knit into a ball when he leads me to the foyer where Lena waits with our coats and my clutch bag. Alex helps me into the tailored white evening coat before pulling on a stylish jacket and his own coat. Steering me outside, he helps me into the car idling in the driveway. As usual, Yuri drives.
We make our way to the old center of the city in a convoy of cars. Alex wears an earpiece and constantly communicates in Russian while checking his phone. After forty minutes, we arrive at a roadblock. Yuri lowers his window and says something to the man who approaches his window. Immediately, the boom gate lifts.
My stomach tightens further as I take in the men in combat gear armed with rifles who are lined up on either side of the road. It’s as if we’re entering a war zone. At the end of the block, we arrive at a stately building with columns in the front. It’s snowing softly. The flakes are illuminated by the golden lights shining from the impressive façade of the former palace that has been turned into a hotel. Lena proudly told me that the venue had been the residence of Princess Lobanova-Rostovskaya in 1820.
We enter a heavily guarded underground parking garage. From there, an elevator with a thumbprint scanner takes us to the ballroom. Alex’s bodyguards follow us to the hall, staying no more than a step behind. Alex hands in our coats at the coat room before wrapping an arm around my waist and keeping me close to him.
As we’re the first to arrive, the hall is empty of other guests. Round tables are set with brocade tablecloths and gold-trimmed crockery. Some waiters are polishing crystal glasses and golden cutlery, while others are aligning the place settings. The centerpieces are flower arrangements of white lilies and peonies that perfume the hall with their sweet scents. The flowers must’ve been cultivated in hothouses or flown in from a summer region for the occasion.
When Alex has done a round of the room with me in tow, he leads me to our table and seats me.
“Champagne?” he asks as a waiter appears with a bottle.
“Thank you,” I say, nodding at the waiter.
Not long after, the guests start arriving. Within minutes, the hall is brimming with women in gorgeous dresses and men in fancy suits. Alex is holding my hand under the table, but he’s still busy on his phone, talking in rapid Russian. I don’t mind. I’m entertaining myself by people watching.
The first guests to join our table are an elderly lady with a red sequined gown and a gentleman with a silver waistcoat and bowtie. Alex introduces them to me as the Dyatlovs.
Mrs. Dyatlova tells me to call her Elvira. Her British-accented English is impeccable, which she attributes to the years she studied in England. Mr. Dyatlov, on the other hand, has to rely on his wife’s translations to follow our conversation and soon gives up, launching into a discussion with Alex in Russian instead.
The next invitees to arrive are a couple who look to be in their early forties. Mrs. Feba Zykova is a lively woman who explains that she owns a textile factory, while the subdued Mr. Zykov is in the import and export business. What kind of import and export, his wife doesn’t say, and he doesn’t seem to speak the best English either. Alex no doubt made sure the women at our table are fluent in English, a consideration I’m very grateful for.
